


Re-Education

by 9_of_Clubs, drinkbloodlikewine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And gets Exactly what he deserves, Desk Sex, M/M, Marking, Porn, Rough Sex, Smut, Tension, Will pushes Hannibal's Buttons, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a long moment, neither of them move, and Hannibal only stares at the puddle of scarlet that muddles his desk, fingers still clutching into Will's arm, unrelenting, tightening for a moment. "It is a shame, Will," he says, finally, a chill of displeasure wrapping itself around the words, his gaze slowly shifting, predatory now, back to the flush of Will's cheeks, “to waste." A breath of air seeping out of his parted lips, but none going in. "I would have thought you knew that to be case."<br/>--<br/>The one in which there is insolence and prices paid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re-Education

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of firsts for this one, my, 9_of_Clubs, first time ever writing Top!Hannibal (SHOCK, I know) and our, first time posting together. <3 We hope you enjoy!! ^^
> 
> ~9_of_Clubs and Drinkbloodlikewine

He watches Will sidle nearer, something curled in the twist of his smile, something determined and distracting, and Hannibal sits back to watch him, eyes narrowing as the other pauses besides him, tilting his head as though curious of what he is working on. Will watches it, the movement of pen across paper in perfect script, and he sighs.

Decides.

And with quick fingers, Will reaches out and shoves the papers to the floor, turning to cock his head at Hannibal, amusement in his gaze.

A surge of irritation shoots through Hannibal, crackles like lightning, but he forces his voice calm. “Was that really necessary?" False nonchalance flowing around them, his and Will’s, twining. 

"No," Will replies, in earnest but unable to resist a flare of pleasure in his voice. "Completely unnecessary.” He pauses, lets the words linger heavy between them. “How does that make you feel?"

"As though." The reply comes evenly, Hannibal unmoving from where he sits, eyes roving slowly up to find Will's. "I should, in fact, lock you away in one of the spare rooms and free myself of such obstinate distractions." There's amusement mixed into his voice, the slightest threads of frustration, and something rather resigned. "That is a very strong urge, at present." But he doesn't so much as shift, tilting his head at Will.

In response, Will drapes himself across Hannibal’s lap. Eases into him, and shoves his fingers back through Hannibal's hair, not rough but curling firmly through the lank strands to unsettle them, to draw them into Hannibal's face, a considering noise fills the air around them. "Maybe you should then. Drag me there and come find me when you're ready to deal with me." Coaxing. Prodding. Goading.

"It's very tempting." Hannibal murmurs back, his head leaning into the touch despite himself, enjoying the reckless way Will's fingers dart across his skin. How he twists them in without permission or concern - as though Hannibal is nothing more than an amusement. It sings refreshingly inside his veins, as it always does. "It would be rather easy, I should think." His own fingers come up and stroke across Will's wrists as they touch him. "But I would have concern for what you might disturb, if you couldn't disturb me."

"Then you are an impasse, aren't you?" Will purrs against Hannibal's ear, fingers dropping to tug the knot of his tie. He wonders how much he would need to disturb here to draw that reaction from Hannibal, to see his frustration darken lines across his features until he wrestled Will away from his things to stow him away in a room to wait. Will shivers, and wraps an arm over Hannibal's shoulders. His other hand extends, slowly, precariously moving towards the glass of wine that Hannibal just poured for himself.

The breaths that dance across Hannibal’s cheek graze warmly, and they sear fiery thrum of arousal through him, fingers at his throat, casual, destructive, a playful violent whirlwind curling around him. He always so enjoys when Will becomes a force.

"Will." His voice is tinged with warning, as he follows Will's gaze, the line of his arm, a quiet menace that he suspects will only drive the other to do whatever he is plotting with all the more urgency. His body draws up without permission from his mind, a magnetic pull between them, curious to see what will happen next, unwilling to step in and alter it yet. He turns his cheek, casts his gaze up to the other. "Do you find yourself thirsty?"

Goosebumps cascade quick down Will's skin at hearing his name so intoned, accent wrapping warmly over the promise of a threat. His fingers curl around the glass and he lifts it to take a long sip, blinking wide beneath his hair. The image of innocence, flush-cheeked and coy, as the glass seems to slip from his fingers over Hannibal's shirt. Just a feint, nothing spilled yet, but close enough that his grin shatters any remaining illusion of naivete.

"So finish your work then," Will responds lightly, and makes no motion to remove himself. No motion at all, really. Waiting.

A low hum comes from Hannibal’s throat as he considers, every cell in his body sparking to life slowly, throbbing and wanting, his fingers itching to reach out and entangle themselves in Will's skin, bring him closer, punish him with his teeth and his touch for the insolence he so boldly displays, the obscene laughter that falls from his lips, begging Hannibal to tear it away. "My work," he says softly, half inclined to reach up and bend Will over, curve his spine to the floor and force him to pick up the papers he has strewn, but in the end, he shifts himself, in slow, fluid, inches, down, bends without standing to retrieve them, Will's weight across his shoulders, “seems to have mysteriously undone itself."

Will stretches out a foot, finds paperwork beneath it, and kicks just enough that they flutter further out of the way. His brows raise as he glances over his shoulder at the pages, as though perplexed that such a thing would have happened. "Very strange," he agrees, taking another drink of Hannibal's wine.

A full shudder of irritation threads itself down the line of Hannibal's spine, curls low in his gut, and surges to the outer layers of his skin. But outwardly, he only bends farther, gathers the papers back up into a neat little pile and straightens himself again. "Yes." There's the curve of a hiss under the surface of the words as he sets the stack down on the table, turns, a sharpness embedded in the motion and brings his fingers up to wrap around Will's arm, pulling him closer. "How very unfortunate of an occurrence. Perhaps a draft has somehow found itself into the middle of my study." He pauses, words so low, they seem to thrum out of the quiet of the room, and not from his lips. "Do you find my wine enjoyable?"

He watches Will's lips part in eager surprise as his wrist is snared. A ruddy rush of color to his cheeks follows, the low hum of danger quickening its pulse in his ears and he leans away as best he can. Glass held over Hannibal's desk, and a sudden lift of chin that bodes nothing good.

"And a leak as well." Will clucks his tongue and tips the glass just enough to spatter a trickle of wine out of the glass, down onto its target.

For a long moment, neither of them move, and Hannibal only stares at the puddle of scarlet that muddles his desk, fingers still clutching into Will's arm, unrelenting, tightening for a moment. "It is a shame, Will," he says, finally, a chill of displeasure wrapping itself around the words, his gaze slowly shifting, predatory now, back to the flush of Will's cheeks, “to waste." A breath of air seeping out of his parted lips, but none going in. "I would have thought you knew that to be case."

Silence greets the pronouncement, and Will stretches, back curving against the desk as he threatens to let more wine spill and spread dark against the mahogany surface. Even now, it stretches grasping towards paperwork. A pensive moment, hanging, before he pours another quick tip of scarlet against the desk.

The push of new liquid sends all of it trickling across the flat surface, bounded by nothing, its staining body undulating into the crisp white sheets, dying them red. Hannibal doesn't move to stop it. Instead, he reaches out and runs a finger through it with his free hand, dragging it back out slowly, feels the heavy weight of Will's lusting eyes tracking the motions. He raises it calmly up, forcing Will towards him, and pushes it lightly across the soft surface of the other's lips, pressing there for a moment. "I would have thought that you were aware, I don't allow it." His hand withdraws, falls to his side, and he untangles his fingers from Will as well, glimmering with silent triumph as he pushes back from the other, denying him contact now.

Will observes this, calm. Steady. Seemingly unmoved by Hannibal's resistance, though inside he unfurls rapidly with a sudden frustration at being denied. He draws a breath, smiles faintly, and stands to pour out the rest of the glass, only a little wine still clinging to it. The smile darkens, a shadow passing across the sun.

"Would you like me to force you?" Hannibal tilts his head, from side to side, considering, the words falling from his lips in a perfectly casual tone of voice, as though they are discussing some mundane matter. "I could." There are lilts of pleasure to it now, beneath the gritting annoyance. "Could curl my fingers into that charmingly unbrushed hair and push your body down in such a fashion you could not resist, bring your lips to the wine to drink." He settles back in his chair, basking in the darkness that curls around the other, the black determination. "But I would much rather you bent yourself of your own will."

Will’s fingers skirt the edge of the desk as he circles it until he finds himself across from Hannibal. He plants his hands on curve of his spines into a shrug, almost feline, challenging in the way the pull of muscles extends up through his neck to the tilt of his chin.

His fingers twitch just perceptibly against the desk’s surface. Ready to leap across it perhaps, push away from it to run, turn it over - though he’s not sure he has the strength for that it occurs to him all the same. A wild energy snared in him, coiled tight and ready to tear free from too many nights grading papers, preparing lectures for disinterested students, and too many nights in Wolf Trap away from Hannibal.

“And if I did?” he replies, a counter-offer.

“Are we negotiating?” Hannibal tilts his head to look up at Will, eyes tracing his movements for a moment, but not concerning himself with them, there’s a quiet sharpness to the words, just a hint of a smile trapped in the corners of his lips. “I did not think we were. You took my wine, and you spilled it, but it is still wine, and it is now yours, and so you will drink it.” 

There’s an unnatural stillness to him, a precursor to impending storm, as though even the air has been sucked out of the room for a heartbeat, only Will’s energy still dancing, his fingers fidgeting. Hannibal wants to rise, to snap his hands around the other’s shifting wrists, cease their tapping, but instead he pins him with his gaze, voice softly menacing. “Do you not agree?”

Will could shiver for the intensity sharp as ozone in the air between them, electrons in the air like before the first crack of lightening, drawing static across his skin.

His fingers drum against the desk again, a steady thrum. Rain, falling, as the sky goes dark.

“I believe that it’s _your_ wine that I spilled,” Will suggests softly, eyes dark, glinting bright beneath the wild curls of hair that fall into them. A flush of color in his cheeks, something primal stirred in him. Predator and prey both, scenting danger in the air and grinning as his blood sings with it.

“That would make it _yours_ to drink.”

The flash of something dark that seeps through Will intoxicates him, the flush that reddens his cheeks, the sudden glimmer in his eyes. He invites Hannibal’s onslaught, and he knows it, craves it, there’s arousal clinging to him, but something much more base and obscene than that beneath. A proxy of violence dispersing into the air, a kind of blood lust that only they might truly understand. 

“You took it from me.” Hannibal repeats carefully, his tongue curling around the syllables of the words, a reprimand and a purr all wrapped up in one. “When one takes something, it becomes theirs.” The air crackles, the weight of the words, in his mind, they wrap around Will, slide along his skin, dark, promising.

He does not rise yet, though he wants to, allows the storm to rumble slowly towards them, the sound of its thunder getting louder but not yet crashing overhead, a murmur in the distance. “Just as.” His lips widen, pull into something more approximately a smile. “If I were to take you, you would become mine. And then, I too, would have to clean you from whatever surface I dirtied with you.”

Will makes a thoughtful noise, pretending to consider the terms even as his eyes flash and he finds holes in their dawning agreement, ways to work around it, to goad, to infuriate into getting exactly what he wants.

“Or I could just continue dirtying them myself,” Will smiles. “I’ve done an admirable job so far.”

An idle threat that appears far less idle when Will pushes off the desk, letting his hands swing free. He considers at length the office around him, pristinely arranged, priceless books and objets d’art each in their proper place, in their correct arrangement.

Each falling under the passing interest of Will, unable to decide where his destruction should resume.

“And if what you say is right,” Will concedes, “and what I take is mine, and what you take is yours, then that would make all of these papers…”

A pause, as he edges around the desk, and presses his foot against one of the pages still thrown to the ground in his fit of pique. It crumples as he grinds it against the carpet, deliberate.

“...mine as well.”

The destruction shudders through him, Will innocently grinding one page and then another under the heel of his foot, humming to himself with a smile, childishly pleased with his ruination. But for Hannibal it is untenable, every crumpled paper, every altered object grinding into his sensibilities. It is all he can do not to growl. It is problematic for him that they are in his office, that there are objects here carefully collected and accumulated work stored, true, he would abandon it in a flash of an eye if called to do so, but to so fruitlessly destroy it now...it sings angrily in his blood as he slowly rises. If they were in some other less important room, he might allow the whirlwind to continue, if only to see where it would lead when Will found nothing more to throw around. But here, now.

“Perhaps then you should not be allowed to take anymore, having so little care for what is yours.” 

He shifts closer, his foot landing on a paper Will seeks to move, standing behind the other, breath curling around his neck. Carefully, the annoyance slides away, replaced by a lilting cadence. “That is wasteful,” he scolds, half into the thrumming air around him, half into Will’s skin, his lips almost grazing its surface. “And what did I tell you about waste, Will?”

Will shivers at the first flare of lightning, illuminating brightly through the darkness of the clouds roiling fast.

“That I am aware,” Will repeats, recalling the words precisely, “that you do not allow it.”

To feel as prey again, when so often in these shared spaces it’s Will that finds himself the predator, purring cool words and firm insistences and bearing in his touches and his looks the undercurrent of threat. Now the thrill of adrenaline cold and metallic as tinfoil between his teeth, aching through his jaws and forcing him to swallow hard.

His pulse notches higher the nearer Hannibal draws to him, heart shuddering and stomach pulling tight as Hannibal’s breath passes across his skin.

Any sense left in Will rattles for him to run, to flee, to take flight rather than fight against the danger so near him, and he laughs, nervous and breathless, at the sensation.

“And still.” Fingers curl around Will’s arm, draw down to his wrist. Hannibal shifts behind him, closer, by a hair, feels the vibrations of the anxious laughter, the first tendrils of eagerly anticipated fear, lets them consume him, press him forward, his fingers squeeze. With a wrench, he exchanges their places, forces Will around to look at the table, Hannibal pressed still to his back, free hand idly settling on the other’s hip. Unable to resist, he presses a kiss to Will’s thrumming pulse, laps at it slowly, lips lingering, mouth opening, and murmurs the words into it as it leaps, speeds again. “Knowing this, you waste.” 

His lips climb higher, teeth dragging out, just enough press into the surface, but not yet breaking skin. “Why would you do such things?” His voice is tinged with false disappointment, put upon disbelief, every word brings a press of his tongue against the smooth surface of Will’s skin, almost to the juncture of his chin. “Do you think because it is you, I will not object?” His hand loosens from where it clenches, bruising, against a wrist and traces upwards, splays itself on the other side of the neck, stilling, flat there. “Well, you are wrong. It is because it is you, that I object most of all.” His lips curve and he knows Will can feel the motion in his body. “I would not waste my time re-teaching anyone else the lesson.”

Will releases a hard breath as his wrist is loosed, turning it over a few times to feel the movement of it, stiff already from the sharp jerk into which it was snapped.

He closes his eyes, grin catching one corner of his lips as he presses back against Hannibal - hips to shoulders, from the hand on his waist to the mouth against his throat.

“Is this a re-education?” Will asks, amused. “Must not have been a very good lesson the first time.”

The winds stir around them, drawing Will’s breath from him as Hannibal’s hand tightens against his hip. Possessive, fierce. Angry. Will can feel it tearing through him like a peal of thunder, building slow and rumbling louder, now, louder as his heartbeat starts to race until it finally cracks, deafening.

Will reaches out with a hand, a fast movement, and pushes a stack of papers to the floor before Hannibal can snare him back with a snarl.

Lightning strikes, and Will’s eyes alight with indescribable pleasure.

It is nothing to bend Will before the papers even manage to flutter down to the floor, sodden and staining, he ignores them. With a snap of his own body, like a spark startled to life, one hand pinning Will’s still outstretched arm and bringing it back behind him, the other pushing his back forward, his body bends them both over to find the hard surface of wood, slick and sticky with wine. It is carefully calculated, this release of grace and strength, a predatory instinct long honed, and it throbs through his body and heats his blood, his cells coming aflame, not a slow burn, but a wildfire. Beneath him, Will tastes of prey, warm living flesh, shuddering and laughing, half struggling in its knowingly useless trap, a mad wind howling around them, the burn of atmosphere in his throat. His fingers slide around, find their way under Will’s untucked shirt and dance beneath it pushing it up as he goes, pausing only to straightening himself, his other hand releasing Will’s wrist and centering in the middle of his back, pressing down.

“Evidently.” His voice is darker now, made rougher with the exertion of will and the dance of motion. It rumbles low from his throat, threatening and soft, the light extinguishing around them. “It was not. But there are no re-educations, Will. We are no longer learning how not to waste.” His hand pushes down into Will’s spine as his other hand travels farther, baring the pale expanses of the other’s back to him, territory to claim. “We are learning instead to obey.”

“A lesson I’ve never been very good at learning,” The answer comes quickly, Will clucks his tongue until Hannibal pushes his wrist just incrementally higher up his back, and earns a sharp intake of breath through other’s teeth.

The angle is unsteady, and Will raises onto his toes to ease the pressure, bent sprawling far enough over the mahogany to lose his footing if he didn’t force his feet to the ground. Cold wine soaks fast into his shirt, staining one of the few nicer ones that he’s managed to own, worn exclusively to his sessions with Hannibal and now destroyed by one. He can feel his pulse, through the wrist that Hannibal holds twisted against his back, through the press of his chest against the desk

A laugh begs to part his lips but Will stifles it, watching Hannibal over his shoulder as he looms behind him, storm breaking black across his features.

“That is okay.” Hannibal leans forward, face inscrutable and places a gentle kiss to Will’s lips, easing his tongue past them and deepening it, unlike the grip on the other’s hand, the position he’s bent him into, the way he pushes him forward on the table and forces his legs to dangle, it’s unbearably soft, a harsh, purposeful juxtaposition as his lips tenderly touch him while his hands cut and bruise.

He’s never quite pushed Will into this place, though they’ve waltzed dangerously close to it, and having him here, shudders deep into his skin. He withdraws from the kiss only to steal another one, pressing them to the cheek that Will has in the air, to the side of his face, before withdrawing again, laughing as Will’s mouth follows his. 

“We have all the time necessary to learn it. Sessions such as these should not be limited by the clock.” His free hand lands on the skin he has bared, traces a line down Will’s spine with the pad of a finger, hips slotting against the other’s body. “And as you have rid me of my work for the evening, I am free to focus fully on your needs.” His lips taste the word carefully, let it float to Will’s ears with all the intended inflection.

The hand goes into Will’s curls next, as a low groan emanates up from the other and he asks, pleasantly, as he yanks them, shifting Will’s face towards the center of the puddle, enjoying the way he shifts, yielding. “Why don’t we begin by fixing your mistakes, Will. Please drink the wine.” 

Remembering a little too late that Hannibal’s patience so consistently outlasts his own, Will squirms. A quick jerk of motion to try to free his wrist, to no avail, or lift his chest from the desk, finding no purchase there, either. He huffs a breath, cheeks flushed, but bites back anything he would say at this point knowing entirely too well that he asked for this.

Wants it.

Needs it.

A dearth of attention or anything to thrill him in too many days, leaving his mind overly active, seeking stimulation and finding none, transferring to his body then in outbursts to feed his being with the movement, affection, action, violence that makes his nerves sing sharp as tuning forks with every shift of weight against his back.

Will sighs, flustered.

The wine is sticky, damp against his face and though he tries to turn away from it, Hannibal’s fingers only wrap tighter in his curls. Not pulling, not enough to rip them loose or cause more than a steady hum of pain in the tension of his grip, forcing Will’s head to remain in place.

The clock ticks, quick jerks of muscle against Hannibal’s restraint, and finally after enough time has passed and Hannibal remains unmoved by Will’s meagre attempts at freeing himself, Will yields.

A soft sound, a noise of a prey in distress, calling out a primal hunger in the predator so near him, as Will extends his tongue enough to taste the wine, just touching it as his cheeks burn hot.

Hannibal hums, pleased, but not satisfied as the other’s tongue dips out into the wine, a noise meant to tempt him, and it does set the arousal heady in the air, flitting from his lips. The way Will’s cheeks redden with humiliation, or maybe it’s embarrassment for his desire to be made to do this, triples the sensation. Hannibal’s hips push more insistently against Will’s now, rock slightly against him just to feel him tremble, pull another groan from his throat, and then he bends himself again, kissing the sticky sweetness that stains Will’s skin, the wine clinging to it.

He will need a bath after this, Hannibal hums to himself, but that is a concern for later. 

For now, he brings his teeth into the soft unprotected skin of Will’s neck and sinks them into it, biting hard at the sensitive spot and then capturing it with his lips

“All of it, Will,” he chides, his hand slipping out from under his body as his chest pins Will’s wrist instead and reaching around to palm at the very prominent hardness he finds trapped by the fabric of the other’s rumpled pants. “In you or on you,” he murmurs, pausing to speak before he attacks the spot again, teasing it mercilessly with his lips, unyielding no matter how Will tries to shift him somewhere else, the hand in Will’s hair shifting him closer to the wine as it exposes more skin. “I do not have a care for which.”

Will draws a sharp breath as Hannibal’s fingers curl ever so slightly tighter. To guide him, to bend him, to break him as they both so clearly desire, but Will resists with whatever leverage he can gain.

The color of his cheeks darken beneath the wine, blush spreading down beneath the collar of his shirt as Hannibal strokes firm against his pants. Will shifts against Hannibal’s hand, hips rolling slowly, flustered when Hannibal withdraws his hand just enough to keep the friction the same, not allowing more.

Will throws a narrow look over his shoulder, jerking his head away from Hannibal’s mouth, unable to move enough to grab the hand from his hair. He tries anyway, and Hannibal shoves harder against the wrist held captive in his hand. Another hiss of breath.

Hannibal’s sorely tested patience snarls inside Will, churns roughly in his stomach. Less prey, then, Will considers, since it earned him little response. More predator.

He murmurs low, “No. That’s enough.”

“And what makes you say such things?” Hannibal watches him struggle poorly against the hands on his body as he speaks, keeps the wrist that wraps around him, as he shifts and wriggles, loose. Ever present, but enough to ensure he gains no friction from his struggles, except for when, in a flash, he tightens it. Animal pleasure knots his stomach as Will ceases his movements at the harsh touch, as his palm closes fast around his hardened flesh and strokes strokes down the entire length, the roughness of the terrible jeans tripling the sensation, and he stills. He had warned Will to stop wearing them, after all. He palms him again, enjoying the heat he can feel pulsing through even the fabric, the blood that rushes now.

With a further squeeze he lifts his body, drags the hand out of Will’s hair and holds him there only with the one now, and with the other’s own desire for destruction and humiliation, kneads him teasingly with his fingers as he lays there, not bucking up but rolling forward into the touch, into the desk, assured in their shared knowledge he will stay like that. Arm free, though his body still pins heavily, he reaches out over Will, drags his fingers through the wine and then brings them over, draws sticky designs across Will’s skin, lets it drip purple and wet wherever he chooses.

First across his neck, he chases the drops with his tongue, then along a cheek, his lips burn across it and then finally, he leans over Will completely, pushing the back of the other’’s collar down, bearing the skin at the top of his neck as much as possible, rolling his hips into the other’s timing them to the motions of his wrist and coats his fingers in the wine, brings them over to Will’s lips as he kisses the fresh skin.

“Drink the wine, Will,” Hannibal whispers, into it, biting harshly. The fingers that clutch Will cease again. “It is no secret between us that you wish to.” 

Will moans, despite himself, a soft sound against Hannibal’s fingers. Will doesn’t intend for it to sound as eager, as agreeable as it does, but it fills the air between them and he yields, to this, rather than drinking it off the desk. Allows Hannibal to press past his lips and trace wine against his tongue, rubbing the pads of his fingers there until Will sucks obligingly, cheeks hollowing and tongue working against them. His eyes close, another little noise falling free past Hannibal’s fingers.

He works his hips faster now against the pressure of Hannibal’s hand, feeling himself harden more for it, aching now with quick spirals of pleasure twisting through his stomach and out through his limbs to fingers that clench, toes that curl, lips that part gasping around Hannibal’s fingers.

He gives as entirely as he receives, bending pliable beneath Hannibal’s weight, a curl in his spine that drives down through his hips. Beyond the childish torments, beyond the ache to feel Hannibal predatory and raw with irritation, beyond anything but need and want and lust and for Hannibal to be the one who satiates it.

“Please,” Will gasps, a pale whisper when Hannibal finally withdraws his fingers. “Please, like this.”

“Yes.” He murmurs agreeably into Will’s skin, withdrawing with a thoughtful hum, the scent of Will’s desire sharper and more urgent than it has been in a while. He pushes back from Will slightly, dipping his fingers past Will’s lips once more before untangling both his hands from the other’s body. He drags his fingers away from the pliant mouth, allows lips to follow skin as they suck him until the very last moment. 

With an unhurried laze, Hannibal undoes the buttons of his shirt, one by one, Will’s gaze turned just enough so that he can see him, and he slows his pace even more, the shirt unfastening inch by inch. When it falls finally open on his chest, he allows it to remain across his shoulders. Then without blinking, in the same even fashion, he brings his fingers to the collar of Will’s shirt, ruined already beyond repair, and rips through it with one fluid motion, parts the pieces as they fall and presses their warm skin together, his chest curving against Will’s back, hips snapping now, his own hardness pressing against the other’s body, miming the act to come. 

“Like this, Will.” It’s all but a purr, a reassuring tut of words as he echoes the sentiments. “I will take you like this.”

Will is hot beneath him, eager and making soft sounds which consume him, collect greedily in his ears, raw need pushing into his veins, and he returns his hand to cup Will, unzipping the zipper this time, and pressing through an even thinner layer of fabric, not yet stroking, but just holding. His mouth travels over a shoulder blade, nips at the center of the spine, brushes lips and marks across the open expanse of his back. All Hannibal’s.

“But only if you learn your lessons first.” 

He adjusts them so that his mouth sits at Will’s ear again, sends his breath across the marks he has already made and bends to kiss at them again as Will’s body molds up into his, seeks more, greedily reaches for what is offered and claims it. “I would like very much.” Every word comes with a curl of tongue. “To watch you drink the wine you have spilled, Will.” A kiss, a touch, his fingers resume teasing little strokes, play at the slit in Will’s underwear but don’t reach for skin yet. “For your cheeks to flush hot and for your tongue to lap out and curl around it as your correct your mistakes.” His teeth bare in a smile against the other, as he skims them down, back to the other’s neck. “When you have made this atonement, I will happily fuck you as you please.” The swear slips into his speech, but he enjoys the crude taste of it, how it sounds in his lilting murmurs, how it makes Will shudder beneath him. “But until then.” A threatening thundercloud shifts over them, pierces the lazy lull of pleasure he has built with danger. “I shall enjoy very much tormenting you.” 

He pulls his fingers away long enough to rezip the zipper of Will’s jeans and settles his fingers over him again, far from enough contact and earning a soft whine from the man beneath him. “I will find great pleasure, no matter your decision. And so I shall leave it to you.”

The soft words, the tender touches, the little kisses are salt in the wound of being made to do this, and Will spitefully questions his own decision-making at this juncture, and the presumption that Hannibal would not, actually, do more than just clean it up himself.

Ill-conceived and ill-advised. Will frowns, stubborn, and when long minutes pass with no resolution, he jerks hard one last time to try and free himself, to no avail. Flushed, wine-damp curls of hair stuck to his face, Will presses his mouth against the desk and with a crude slurping sound, sucks the wine from the mahogany.

He does so until he can taste no more beneath his mouth, and for good measure - and perhaps Hannibal’s pleasure - he drags his tongue across the smooth surface with aching slowness.

As Will drinks, the soft pleasure of watching him forced into the action that he has brought on himself rises in Hannibal, and so he reaches out with his fingers again, unzips the jeans once more, and eases them, this time, completely off of Will, drops the layers of fabric to pool at their feet as he undresses the other. He pulls back to ease the pants away, fingers sliding lightly down the lines of Will’s spine, nothing but the tatters of his shirt still clothing him. The obscene way the fabric hangs from his skin, coupled with the ungainly fashion he drinks, like a sputtering animal, hissing and growling, but so pliable, brings a laugh from Hannibal’s lips, a rumble of pleasure surrounding them. 

He revels in the slide of tongue against wood, the twisted enjoyment Will can’t quite hide, which angers him so, and with triumphant motions, he pulls his own hips away, leaves Will flat on the table, trusting him to not move, knowing that if he does, he will get nothing at all and pulls the glass of wine towards him from where it still sits on the table, dipping his fingers into it, coating them with the reminders of the liquid, and with slight smirk, pressing them to the entrance of Will’s body. With one hand, he shoves the other’s thighs wider, easily pushes him farther up the table so he can bend a knee up onto it at Will’s side. It strains the muscles in Will’s legs, the thought crackles cheerily within him, but it certainly makes for a lovely picture, the white shirt stained with red like blood around him, his hair wet and mussed, his body begging to be taken.

He presses the fingers in a little, teasing, letting them play and stretch at the opening, the skin parting for them and then closing back around him, tight, inviting, even it seems to ask him for more. He brings the other hand to splay across one of the cheeks he parts, pushing bruises into it, eyes heavy on the way Will arches under the touch, tries take more than is offered. 

“Was it satisfying?” he murmurs, pinching the skin and twisting it under his fingers, reveling in the soft, smoothness of it as he shifts his fingers in just a little deeper, in the harsh intakes of breath Will makes, the way his tongue runs along his lips. “Tell me how it tasted, Will.” 

Will braces his hands against the smooth surface of the desk, fingers curling against it as though to grasp for purchase and finding none. They splay instead then, fingers spreading wide and pressing forward, as another low groan escapes him.

He tries to twist back against Hannibal’s fingers but they withdraw just as far as he can move, and he murmurs in flushed frustration, “Like wine.” Breathless, heart racing, so close to what he’s wanted through destruction and then debauchery and then demeaning. “It tasted like fucking wine.”

The fingers dance away farther. 

“Please,” Will begs again, a little softer now. He lifts his other foot off the ground to bend himself deeper, to press harder against the desk and hope that it’s becoming enough to Hannibal for him to touch him more, faster, farther, everything until Will finds the release that tugs firm in his belly.

“Please, Doctor?”

“So crude.” The soft words go straight into Will’s skin as he kisses into his neck again, tasting, desiring, consuming, whatever Will believes to be occurring here, it is nothing short of offering himself up to be devoured, for the whole of him to be pulled apart and tasted. Sweat pools in the hollows of skin as Hannibal’s tongue swirls around it, reeking of wine, feeling of shudders of goosebumps.

Delicious. 

He inches his fingers into him, still keeping the weight of his body at a distance, in and out, toying, pushing Will to the frustrated noises he makes, to the pretty way he begs which sharpens the predator in Hannibal, makes the savagery in him sing, so close to the surface. Slowly, his fingers slide from the swell of a cheek and around again, allowing the pads of his fingers to graze Will’s cock as it jumps beneath them, but instead he brings his touch up, presses in between Will and the desk, forcing him to balance a little more precariously on his arms as Hannibal’s hand brushes up his body. He finds the hard nub of a nipple and pinches it, roughly toys with the flesh, just as he forces his fingers in deeper, to the first knuckle, widening them mercilessly. 

“And suddenly so polite.” The litany of yelps and groans fills his ear and he squeezes tighter, rotates his fingers. “And politeness is rewarded.” The fingers slip in unceremoniously, as far as they can go, his body pushing forward with them, hips pressing his hand further into Will, relishing in the way he spreads across the desk, his legs wide and bent on either side of him. The space between them is removed as his chest finds Will’s back, draping across it. He is everywhere now, inside of Will, atop him, around him.

“Spread yourself wider, please.” 

Will stifles a vocal gasp against his arm, pulling it beneath him to press his mouth against it. Hannibal’s fingers move unyielding, ungentle within him, seeking to consume, to devour Will in inches rather than all at once. He pushes up onto his toes, groaning low as he listens, hears, obeys and works his legs wider.

He drops his other hand from where it’s sprawled across the desk and rests his cheek against the sticky wine. Avoids the temptation of grabbing his own cock and hurriedly attempting to reach his own satisfaction - aware that Hannibal would stop him before he even got close and prolong this even more - and instead stretches seeking fingers to fit between the press of their hips. His touch grazes past where Hannibal’s fingers penetrate and spread and widen him, and instead trails his fingertips - the most contact he can make - against Hannibal’s length.

Pleased to find him as equally hard, Will moans softly, rubbing the best he can against the ridge of Hannibal’s cock, pressing tight against his trousers.

“Will.” It comes out as a groan, on his tongue for a minute to force the other to stop, but the way Will twists himself for this, so much effort for so very little, for Hannibal’s pleasure and not his own, stops him and he allows the seeking fingers to push against him, rocks into their touch and shifts so that Will can take more. Hannibal’s fingers press deeper inside of him, he lets them rest for a moment and then pulls them out, only to shove them back, crooking them, for a breadth of a second, against Will’s prostate, watching him jerk and moan, his fingers brushing desperately against Hannibal, and then forces them out completely.

He withdraws to remove his own pants, toe off his shoes, and he stills for a heartbeat, takes in the intoxicating sight of Will, so contorted and curled, legs wide and bent, open for him, and his mouth waters. In that moment, the heady blend of Will’s whimpers mixing with the submission he is scented with, the unbearable desire that coats him, he relents, has teased them both long enough.

Hannibal allows the predator to take the forefront, and shoves the clinician away.

His hands find Will’s hips as he steps back to them, drag them easily up to where he wants them and presses in, brutal in one long motion, one hand wrapping heavily around Will’s thigh, pushing him wider and back as he begins to move, thrusts him into the wood. It is an ecstasy like no other and a growl rushes low from his throat, Will’s tight heat surrounding him after all this time, the way he shifts against him, so soft in his hands, so moveable, he thrusts deeper, snaps his hips, allows the sweetness of the moment to tempt him and drip down his lips, presses them into Will’s skin as he takes him.

“Is this what you wanted?” His hand digs up into Will’s chest and he bends again, layers himself atop the other to growl in his ear as his hips move, roll deeper, no set rhythm, fast and then slow, stuttering and then sharp. His free hand tangles in the sticky curls and forces the other’s throat to bare, rips teeth against already worn skin. He slams them against the wood of the desk. “Just like this?”

“Yes,” The groan spills wrenched from Will’s lips, as he tries to find the rhythm that Hannibal deliberately breaks to keep him unsettled. He gasps when Hannibal pulls his hair back, neck exposed in an elegant curve and back arching deeper still. “Yes, just like this.” Another breathless moan, offered up to Hannibal as though it were a sacrifice.

Transitory as ever, Will becomes. Becomes grasping uncontrolled movement and soft sounds of pain and pleasure and a racing pulse. Becomes prey to Hannibal’s predator, becomes the thing needed to strike balance between them as Hannibal takes his pleasure and in doing so, grants it.

Will is close already, teased for so long that he hurts from the tension bruising deep through his belly, and he snares his lower lip between his teeth to bite down, to resist finishing before Hannibal does, watching him over his shoulder as the desk shudders beneath the force of him. Hannibal’s hair has fallen loose into his eyes, his clothes rumpled and untidy, tie slung over his shoulder and hands spreading Will wider when he digs his nails into Will’s skin.

“Harder,” comes the pleading whisper pressed to wine, to wood, as it falls from Will with a moan.

Will begs, but the words themselves are lost to Hannibal’s mind, whirling in sensation now, it clings to every part of him, all around him, the delicious chords of pleasure that press and play. With every thrust he evolves, becomes less man and more beast, creates the monster Will seeks out with his cries. The words themselves are lost to Hannibal’s mind, but he hears every cadence of the beg, every squirm against him, catches gasps with his ears and with his teeth and does as Will asks for all the same, because the storm has rolled in now and there’s nothing to be done but allow it to rush and rage as it will. Will has invited it here and now it paints itself across his body.

His fingers scratch into Will, spread him open, hips bucking wilder, deep in long strokes and he forces all his weight atop the other, brings him completely flat to the desk, hips forced up, bodies bent so that he can fit himself low and impossibly far, the most purchase he can create to bruise Will against wood and lay him undone. His hips roll in and out against the other’s. Will tries to meet his thrusts as he’s jostled and pinned, but never quite manages, muscles tensing and then relenting beneath Hannibal’s chest. 

The new strokes cause his own hisses of pleasure as Will’s body submits to his intrusions, presses tight against him, impossibly hot around him, the coiling arousal that roars in his stomach preparing to strike. With rough motions, he brings his hands around to Will’s thighs, moves him bodily back onto the force that splits him as he continues his thrusts, the way he can move Will like this, control his responses and his pleasure, the way he wraps around him, his scent filling Hannibal’s nose, his taste sticky on his lips, the taste Hannibal has chosen for him tonight, his cries rushing in and out of awareness, the way it all whirls together, spikes a mounting flash of white hot pleasure through him, and it spreads, consumes them both. 

Too much, too quickly, too long delayed. Will draws a choking breath as Hannibal’s own release sings through him, the twitch of thighs pressed against Will’s own, the quick twitch of hands against his legs. He feels it building, building, each hard gasp against his back and each erratic thrust inside of him and Will can’t hold out any longer.

He works his hand between himself and the desk, grasps himself and has barely rolled his wrist in a stroke before his relief jerks free across his fingers and the desk and pours from him in explosive breaths. Sweat clinging to his hair, hair stuck to his face with wine, mouth wide in a shuddering, spasming release.

“Like this,” Will hisses on a sharp breath. Hands shaking, trembling beneath Hannibal, trying to snare back the ragged gasps as his heartbeat staggers to slow. A sudden sensation of falling, as though were Hannibal to move away, his knees would go loose and he would slide to the floor.

He’s grateful, then, profoundly, when Hannibal slides an arm around his waist and lays above him, against him, a secure weight against his back and mouth warm against the nape of his neck.

“I have a distinct concern.” Hannibal chuckles low, lips brushing the other’s spine, relishing in the heaviness that fills his bones, the warmth that is Will beneath him, loose and easy. The predator still lingers in the corners of his satisfaction, satiated but ever present, and he glories in the knowledge of that as well. “That I have just reinforced all the wrong behaviors.” 

He snakes up Will’s body, arms enveloping him to hold him tightly, and he places his face close to the other’s, kissing his pliant lips softly. Already, the savagery is beginning to fade away a little, the concern for his desk returning, for replacing the shirt of Will’s that he has ruined, for finding a bath and washing away all the wine that has worked itself into the other. But the memories linger and so he allows them to sit like this for moments more. 

“I suppose we shall have to find out.”


End file.
